I tried to stay close to home this weekend. These at-home jokes never get old.
For some reason, work kicked my arse to Topeka and back last week, which isn’t good because I’m supposed to shelter in—what the heck does “shelter in place” mean, anyway? It makes me think of freeze tag, which by the way was always a stupid game.
Work kicked my arse, and I worked a little late Friday, or as I like to call it, Friyay. That too never gets old. “I’m shutting down my computer and not THINKING about work till Monday,” I said to Edsel, who was not only looking forward to Friyay but also Caturday.
The moment I closed my laptop I got a headache.
This is a common migraine-y thing, that the pain comes AFTER the stress. I don’t know why. I also don’t know why there’s no sun up in the sky. Stormy weather. Since that migraine and I got together.
So my head summed up both Friyay and Caturday.
My faithful companions joined me on the bed, and it was totally 100% for sure because they cared and not at all because I was a large warm area on the bed. But at one point in my agony I looked over and saw Lily shooting me daggers.
That was comforting.
Then on Sunday—or Sunday Funday, there’s nothing I like better than when people write that. On Sunday Funday I got up all my courage and drove down to the post office to mail my StitchFix bag.
When you subscribe to StitchFix, they send you a box of clothes, and a bag to mail them back in if you don’t keep them all. I have never kept them all, I don’t think. And now, in the time of our plague, I had to mail the bag back. I in fact kept ZERO clothes this time, as none of them wowed me enough. Let’s say “Wow factor” since we’re saying all the words I love today.
Anyway, I drove to the post office with my bag and my baggage; I had my mask and my gloves and my hazmat suit and my immune system all ready to get the nerve to touch the handle on the mailbox there at the post office, and when I got there?
Slots. Teensy slots. There was no way to mail my bag without GOING INTO THE LOBBY.
Oh my god.
I’ve literally been nowhere since this whole business started. Nowhere. And now I had to go into the post office lobby, where germ people probably lick all surfaces just to vex me.
I suited up in my hazmat men-from-E.T. outfit and got to the door. Inside was an old man. There’s an old man standing next to me, making love to his tonic and germ.
I didn’t go in, as the lobby isn’t what you’d call roomy in the hips, Clarice, so I stood outside in my jaunty mask.
You’ve never seen an old man take his sweet time longer than this motherfuckin’ heifer. Jesus Katie Christ. I don’t even know what he was DOING in there after he stopped making love to his tonic and germ. I kept peering in there and he was OBLIVIOUS. Was he drawing stamps?
Finally, after six hours and 49 types of virus floated at me in the air, he walked out, and when he saw me he LEAPED back like I had the red prongs of corona sticking directly out of me. Oh, NOW he’s got the fire down below. Sure.
As I mailed the damn bag, it occurred to me that last month all I did was stick the bag in my door, at home, where my mail slot is, and Bernie my mailman took it.
So now I await all the symptoms, because I ventured out, and I will alert you forthwith via my dry cough.
Also, last night, on Sunnight Funnight, I opened my fridge door for a change, and?
Hunh, I thought, opening the freezer.
I checked my extremely modern fuse box, and even replaced the fuses with each other, but ’twasn’t the fuse. After much hemming and hawing, I plugged a lamp into the outlet where the fridge is plugged in?
Outlet isn’t working.
Did I mention this is an extremely new and cutting-edge house?
So I spent my Funnight in the shed, where I’m certain eleventy snakes riddled with coronavirus don’t reside or anything, digging through my Christmas boxes till I found an extension cord. And?
Current situation. Look, at least my refrigerator’s running, so you can go ahead and prank call me now.
I really don’t want anyone IN here fixing anything, but I did text my ridiculous handyman, Alf, who as you may recall sends me the world’s most annoying texts back, where I swear he TRIES to make it impossible to discern his meaning.
Oh my god. What.
So that about sums me up, and tells you all about Friyay through Funday, and I personally hate everything and all germs and also electricity. The whole kit and kaboodle pisses me off. I miss normal life. I miss my electric youth.
In a Whirlpool of emotions,